


whispering lilies

by dirtychai



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: F/M, Memory Loss, Other, Trauma, Tumblr Prompt, except i didnt request it, not really fixing anything, sprinkling more angst in the fandom, tags would be great if i knew what to do with them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 11:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18364898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtychai/pseuds/dirtychai
Summary: they said it would all come back to you with time.but what if there wasn’t anything to remember.(or when klaus tries to bring his lover back by manifesting their soul in their body but doesn’t quite get it right )





	whispering lilies

**Author's Note:**

> continuing the the tumblr prompts.

> **title** : _whispering lilies_
> 
> **summary** :
> 
> _they said it would all come back to you with time._
> 
> _but what if there wasn’t anything to remember._
> 
> **a/n:** a bit of an angst warning in this one. but i mean that’s what you asked for,, right?? it’ll be a rough ride but i hope you like it!

* * *

You say you remember him.

Even when you don’t. Because this happens to be the one time where lying is kind of okay.

Lying gets him to smile, even when it’s a little broken. You get the feeling that it was self-stitched together, because it’s always crooked and splitting at the ends. He must have done most of it while he was in pain, but you try not to think too much about it because he’s still seems to be.

And you’re the reason.

The man you’ve come to know as Klaus is supposed to be your lover. At least that’s what everyone tells you. It’s what he _shows_ you when he brushes kisses against your brow and leads you by the waist. He shares the his - _your_ bed confidently as if he belonged there.

He probably did. Just because you were a mismatched puzzle piece didn’t mean that everyone else didn’t have their place.

Sometimes when he’s not looking, you tug at your hair until it nearly tears, and dig your nails into your palms until it’s on the verge of breaking the skin. It all hurts, because its suppose to. They say that emotions trigger things- memories.

But you don’t feel much except pain. Its starts at your heart and vibrates to every part of your body. You _try_ \- **_try_** so hard with every breath in your body to just remember.

It shouldn’t be this hard. Most children can remember what they ate for breakfast so why can’t you recall the man who so comfortably shares a house with you. But nothing filters across your vision but a static grainy image of what you guess is reality. For all you know you’ve just been staring at an error message.

But you’re broken so its fitting.

You pretend that you don’t believe it when he hushes you. Shaky hands cupping your cheeks while he showers you with kisses. Sometimes it’s just the simple touch of you that brings him comfort. But you ruin it when you speak.

You never understood how easy it was to shatter someone’s whole world with the sound of your voice.

So for the most time you try not to. You just grin and bare it. Later at night, you run your tongue against the indentions your teeth have left behind. Each one is like reading the brittle surface of braille. A tattoo of questions hidden from sight so that they torment you only.

_ What is your name? _

_ How old are you? _

_ If you’re **alive,** then where is your life? _

These are things anyone should know but you don’t. And you know it’s not right.

But you smile because that’s the one thing that does seem okay. He’s happy because you’re here, so shouldn’t you be pleased to see the same?

He certainly makes you feel safe. Not from bodily harm. He offers a more meditative form of reassurance, as if his presence is wide enough to stop you from falling into the void. The net is stitched with all his little promises.

About how much he loves you. How he can’t live without you. That you’re the most important person in his life.

But to you, they’re just words. Like lyrics of a song on the radio you might have heard before. You can’t keep up with the verses, but the chorus resonances something with in you. Perhaps if you remembered the artist or the name of the song, you might have looked it up and better prepared yourself for the next playing.

* * *

When you walk through the house, you notice a lot of things. He’s told you before that they’re yours too so that you can touch them. Sometimes you catch him checking certain items with a close inspection, as if he can tell where you’ve been and trace your day.

On other occasions, you think he places them himself to trigger a reaction.

But as far as you’re concerned everything is his. There are some generic things- like towels, candles, or ambiguous socks. But most of them you come to recognize his mark.

Whether it be the scorched lighter, broken watch or the wedding band.

These are things he keeps at his bedside when he’s home. Early in the morning you find yourself looking at them, hoping they would spill secrets.

You’ve never seen him smoke, but you smell the after taste sometimes when he returns home. You assume he does quite often from the current state of the lighter. If you could go out on your own, you thought about replacing it for him. It doesn’t look like it would hold anymore fuel but he never discards it. Maybe it doesn’t? He’s never used it in front of you, so perhaps its more of sentimental value.

The watch confuses you a little. Not because it lingers despite its lack of use. For some reason the time and date set in stone feels like it could have importance. Maybe you, him or both. You’re not confident in either to make assumptions. It doesn’t seem like a very expensive model but he still treasures the hidden value.

The ring is more than self explanatory and you rarely dive into the implications. You know he’s waiting for you. The matching pair is tucked away in the drawer by your side. It’s a physical indicator because he can’t read your thoughts.

But he doesn’t say anything about it so you don’t either.

There are times that you _think_ you remember. It’s more actions than thoughts. You find yourself making things to eat that warm your mouth in ways that doesn’t only imply the heat. When you watch television, you often flip to the same channels even if you don’t know what’s going on in the series.

They’re all things that make up a person.

Not you.

But someone important to this household. To him.

You _want_ to be that person.

You look like them, based on the portraits scattered through the home.

It gives you hope to know that they were happy. That at some point in his life, that person was someone to covet.

It’s all a daring dream that you don’t feel equipped to make the jump for.

He never berates you or shows any signs of anger. He’s always gentle with you, to be exact.

It’s when you catch him in the late hours curled on the bathroom floors that you see what you really do to him. You’ve been to the hospital enough to know what medication is for. But you don’t recognize those pills and the symptoms don’t give the impression of healing.

You don’t encroach because its not your place. You don’t interrupt because you’re the reason.

Why add fuel to the fire?

* * *

He has siblings. A lot of them, but you never see them all at once. Actually, you’re sure there are some you haven’t met.

You know about Ben and Allison from occasional visits. Diego sometimes brings donuts. It’s always the same flavor. You don’t really like it but you chew and swallow.

You don’t remember the others names, but you think if you saw them in public you’d recognize them. It’s nice to know that in some aspects of being lost, someone could find you.

It’s Ben who makes the most repetitive appearances, so naturally it’s him that you hear it from.

It was an accident. But aren’t they all?

You supposed that some people died from intents, but in this case it was just a case of ‘the wrong place at the wrong time’. You read about the reports and news headlines, matched the spoken injuries to the scars on your body.

But these marks were yours. You didn’t know how you got them, but just because someone wrote them down somewhere didn’t mean it was your reasoning. Maybe its because its the autopsy report that has a name on them, _your_ name they tell you but you forget it often. It’s not the way you’re supposed to remember, but you found the sheet of paper anyway.

Because that can’t be right.

If that person is dead. How can it be you?

“Are you hungry?”

Ben’s voice interrupts your thoughts in a way that you know is intentional. He’s lingering in the entryway of the office, but his gaze is elsewhere. You know he’s aware of what youre reading again but he doesn’t make a comment about it because you don’t. It’s your secret.

Finally something of your own.

Carefully, you put the papers back where they belong, fitting them into their individual drawers and folders. Then you’re rising to your feet and exciting the room. You’re not hungry but you agree, because his shoulders hold a little less tension when you do. Or maybe it’s because you’re further away from the study.

* * *

It’s in the middle of the longer days that you ask Klaus why he stays. Because he doesn’t _have_ to. He had any easy way out but he didn’t take it. Instead he’d clung to you tightly and branded you as an impossibility.

Of course, its because he loves you. You know it without the words tumbling over his lips. You don’t understand the emotions, but you recognize the actions of it. He lived through the pain just to be beside you.

But you ask the same question again. And again.

And again.

And again.

Before it dawns on you that you’re not expecting his answer to change. You’re _hoping_ that it doesn’t. Because outside of this little world, you know nothing. He’s guided your steps, deciphered your rambles, kept you afloat.

You’re _**scared**_ to think about what life would be like without him because it doesn’t feel like life at all.

* * *

You still don’t know who you are.

When you look into the mirror, you _see_ someone but it’s not you. Because everyday it’s someone different.

You identify them all.

The _Button_ _Nose_.

_Little Scar_ on the chin.

_Baggy_ _Eyes_ is a frequenter.

The sun plays tricks on you. Changing the colors of hair and highlighting streaks. You name them too. Because each one is important to you.

You can remember those.

Sometimes he catches you looking, smile foamy from his habit of putting too much paste on his brush. It splatters when he talks, it speckles the mirror but he ignores it.

He mentions a lot it the same attributes that you do, but his words are more placement then just scenery.

‘You once let Allison dye your hair, but the process got mixed up and it was green for three days.’

‘There use to be more freckles on your cheeks but I think they faded over time.’

‘Tried to talk you into a nose piercing. Would’ve been so hot but no.’

He means well, but your smile falters because he doesn’t see **_you_**. He sees what you had been, or maybe what he thought you could be again.

You wish you could see what he saw. Maybe it will make it easier.

For now you just try to ignore the pimple growing on ‘ _Button Nose’_.

* * *

When you meet Five, it’s unofficial. You’ve been getting hints that you aren’t supposed to. At least not yet.

He doesn’t seem dangerous but his name is like glass and everyone is concerned you’ll get cut.

Maybe you do a little, when you answered the door. Klaus was still in the shower and you weren’t inept.

When you peeped through the hole, the disinterested face watching back didn’t scream familiar but _danger_ wasn’t heard either. So you let him in trying to explain Klaus whereabouts-

But he isn’t here for Klaus.

“You’re just hurting him and yourself.”

It’s blunt but edge is just sharp enough to cut into you. Biting against the skin of your soul and the first drop of blood hits the floor.

“You won’t ever be that person again so there is no point in trying.”

_Drip_.

“But leaving will just make it worse. You’ll just worry everyone that way.”

_**Drop**_.

“You were smart before. ‘Can at least remember that much.”

He levels you with a look, one so cold and calculating that it’s hard to believe anything other than himself was part of the equation.

In that moment you felt like he could take you away from here- _would_ take you away if it factored in his favor. The consideration was there, swimming beneath the surface but in the end he only scoffed and pulled away.

_Drip_. **_Drip_**. _Drop_.

“You’ve been here long enough to know what he likes. So stop making him believe he failed.”

_Drip_.

“Maybe you’re them, maybe you’re not. But you’re here now, so do something about it.”

_**Drop**_.

And then he’s gone.

“Why are you just standing in the hall?”

He’s still damp from the shower but not enough to prove haste. In fact he’s still relaxed and unsuspecting, if not a little concerned.

“You alright? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His voice is a bit shaky on the last word, but you’ve gotten use to the tremor.

When you throw your arms around him he stumbles back in surprise but maintains his footing.

* * *

It’s disfigured and a little rash but it’s an emotion, your emotion. You don’t call it love, because it’s not quite that.

It wears a similar disguise but it doesn’t fit you right.

Your hands never seem to make it past the hem of the sleeves but he doesn’t catch on.

Your kisses are the right tempo now that you’ve learned his rhythm. It’s easier to arch into his touch when you know where it’s heading.

You remember his name. Chanting it with confidence, while encouraging his body to slide against yours.

It feels like less of an act when you’re enjoying it, and he is too.

There is a shift in the house, in your relationship. Dates back to the unspoken visit from Five. Klaus wants to investigate the change but you don’t give him the opportunity to scavenge.

Now you speak before he does, reach for his hand and guide it to yours.

You tell him you miss him.

You tell him you want him.

But you don’t tell him you-

It feels like less a ruse when you don’t _say_ it, even when the actions paint the picture fit you.

Maybe it’s easier for him too. He knows this body, he _remembers_ what it felt like to be stroked just there or nipped under here.

Perhaps he prefers it when you don’t say it.

The echo of the past sounds better in his head.


End file.
